There's something satisfying about screaming into a bathtub of water.
To crouch over and just scream.
Your voice gets muffled into tiny airfilled bubbles.
You can feel your rage and sadness surround the sides of your face.
And to just lift your head out of the tub and allow the warm water to trickle down your face, is almost overwhelming.
As if it never actually happened.

I'll forget how good it felt to have you around.
I'll forget the sound of your laugh.
I'll forget how your hair felt between my fingers.
I'll forget the way my hand fit in yours.
I'll forget how your lips felt pressed against mine.
I'll forget the ways you've always hugged me.
I'll forget how passionate you get about music.
I'll forget the way your fingers feel tracing my skin.
I'll forget all of it.
I don't want to, but I will.
Hopefully I'll forget all the hate you feel towards me.

It's been one year
since you took your
last breaths,
and I can't stop wishing
you had gotten more time.
You deserved prom dates,
and a high school graduation,
slow kisses in the rain,
and falling in love.

And if I could trade
places with you,
believe me, I would.
Because you deserved a life
far beyond hospital beds
and breathing tubes.

I so desperately wish
you had gotten the life
you fought so hard for.

-k.w//One Year

But how do you love someone else when you don't love yourself, because to love yourself is to know yourself and you don't know who you are, but how are you supposed to know yourself? How do you truly know who you are?

You can love again despite the things you said about caring too much for a person you thought was the most important part of your life, but that's what you get for opening a closed door in hopes they'll find love on the inside.
I'm a house with no windows, you're the flowers on the front porch, and I can't stop.
Sometimes it scares me how much I think about going for a walk and never coming home, and how willing I am to leave everything I have and everyone I know.
And you said "I think your eyes could use some sleep."
And I said " but I don't want this to end."

This one goes to the real poets.
To those who decide to carry the world on their own.
To those who carry hell in their head and a graveyard of lost love stories in their heart
To the brave ones who fight darkness with darkness.
Tho those who the only answer they seek from a god is if there's eternal life for their loved ones, because they know there's no space for them in that paradise.
To those who know that suffering is the most humane feeling there is.
To those who loved and hated the wrong person.
This goes to Lorca isolated, hiding in a closet in New York.
To Unamuno craving to believe in something impossible.
To Quiroga drinking the poison of his sorrow at a hospital.
To Becquer and Espino for dying so young.
To Neruda for cheating on himself so many times.
To Machados' lost spirit.
To Marquez and his melancholic ******.
To Poe's tormented soul and his raven.
To Shakespeare and his Juliet.
To Dante and his story of woe.
This goes for the only beings who can live with a hell inside of them, and still manage to write heavenly things for those in need to read.
This one's for us.